


Waning Moon

by daredevilmoon



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredevilmoon/pseuds/daredevilmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He glanced over at Philip, who was at that moment stuffing his watch into his vest; thank Christ he’d dressed himself. It would have been far too strange, far too much if Thomas had been required for it; he hadn’t even allowed himself the thought in the morning, cutting it off abruptly. It led to too many histories.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waning Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



The surprise of the thing had finally fallen from his mouth in a great gasp, run through with anguish against which it seemed he could hardly breathe. The sensation pressed and ran through his chest, in line with his ribs, tightening him into himself. Christ.

Absently, he patted his inside pocket, hearing the crackle of the paper between fabric; he couldn’t look at that, not now. Unbidden, the words he’d so long held as fortification - _it hardly bears thinking how I spent my hours before the idea of your company_ \-  sprung to mind and seemed to turn to dust along with all the rest of it. So too, Thomas’s mask, so hastily fixed in the hall, crumbled when he was free from the risk of being seen.

A curious maelstrom of feeling rose within him, sorrow mixing up in a whorl of shame and rage, none entirely settling until he felt the still at the eye of the storm. He blinked, looking around himself for a moment, before he began to mechanically undressed to his undergarments and sat on the bed. The shiver of a chill ran through him, though he made no move to dress in his pyjamas or to at least lie beneath his paltry covers. The thought hit him hotly, I shouldn’t need those I should be -

His throat tightened in time with the thought, forcing tears to fall when he blinked, when he ducked his head against a sudden sob. There had been nothing like Philip in his life, nothing so thoughtless and simply happy - there had been nothing like the contents of their letters, their afternoons. It had always seemed a fantasy and now it had proven itself as such. He blindly reached out for the chair, pulling it towards him and reaching into the pocket of his jacket to remove the page of the first letter he had received.

Looking at the thing, he realised he was shaking and took a deep breath in attempt to still the sobs if not the tears. He could hardly read the damned thing now, vision blurred, but he hardly needed to see it any longer to think of its contents -

_I’ve missed you terribly of late. Every afternoon seems positively barren without you. It hardly bears thinking how I spent my hours before the idea of your company to at least keep my own mood high. You act as the moon, shining a light on the darkest night’s path and for that I must thank you - o! if only I could thank you in flesh once more. The praises we could sing together!_

Thomas ran his thumb along the lines, then smashed the paper into his fist and threw it across the room, watching as it hit his dresser. He felt the instantaneous urge to straighten it, to place it back where it belonged in his pocket - then, too, that warred with the urge to burn it, to let it join all of the rest of them. Another sob wracked him; he covered his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t destroy that last thread which had tied their love to reality, yet neither could he bring himself to touch it. He let it rest where it lay, his only movements those compulsions brought on by tears as they ran dry, replaced by a horrendous ache which covered him like a skin.

Yawning, he lay back on top of his bed. Already at the brink of utter exhaustion, his eyes falling shut seemed all he needed to fall into a black, heavy sleep.

* * *

When had woken up, his head was thickened from the night before as though he’d been drunk on something other than his own unhappiness. He looked at his wan reflection, glad at least he didn’t strictly look so much as though he’d been up half the night crying so much as simply not sleeping. He certainly felt as though he hadn’t slept.

Thomas washed his aching face after a shave, looking the more drawn. He sighed, dressing in his livery once more, catching sight of the crumpled letter in the corner. He looked away; he couldn’t think of that right now, not when he still had to go to Philip’s rooms - and it was Philip, He wouldn’t call him ‘your grace’ when they were alone, not ever, the certainty of which coming with a pleasant little jolt of anger, so much easier an emotion than sadness. He felt a little more awake.

The energy, however, seemed to drain from him with each decreasing step as he made his way down the stairs, glaring at the hallboy who brushed by him. Before the door, he took a fortifying breath as he entered the hall; the quarters seemed entirely still but for his soft footsteps down the hall. Wouldn’t it have been marvellous if Philip had stolen away? But of course he never would; he wasn’t one for scandal, was he? The bitterness crept into Thomas’s bones and drew his jaw tight as he entered the room.

His years of practise allowed him to imagine the sigh of relief he felt upon seeing that Philip seemed to have at least left everything out so Thomas could pack them with minimal lingering. Then, of course he would want to linger no longer than he had to at Downton, having apparently made something of a spectacle of himself the night before. Thomas rolled his eyes, the mask of pure formality having slipped from him of its own accord. He glanced over at Philip, who was at that moment stuffing his watch into his vest; thank Christ he’d dressed himself. It would have been far too strange, far too much if Thomas had been required for it; he hadn’t even allowed himself the thought in the morning, cutting it off abruptly. It led to too many histories.

His gaze fell the fireplace against his will; naturally it was simply barren, black with ash and telling no tales of what it had burnt. Thomas gripped the top of the case with a knuckle-white upset; it had burnt his bloody life and there was nothing to show it had been more than something to be tidied away.

“I -,” Thomas began, finished with what little packing there had been to do. He had meant to simply say he was going to fetch William to help bring the cases down, but his voice had emerged as a hoarse, embarrassing thing. Not his voice at all. He glanced at Philip, who had fallen into simply watching him, and ducked his head abruptly before turning heel and leaving the room.

He wondered whether Philip thought he had been going to say something significant - to apologise or to beg. Thomas never would have, but he felt a surplus surge of pride against the hope of having left Philip wanting.

Even so, watching his car pull away from the drive - for it to stop so bloody Bates could be granted his reprieve - his heart had given a pull toward the car. Just stop, he thought, his throat beginning to constrict as though to silence the press of his thoughts. Just bloody stop.

Thomas stood frozen for a moment, watching his own hope fade to a black dot against the horizon, feeling as the sorrow dripped from him into a curiously dizzy stillness. He wanted cigarette and drinks in quick succession, to sleep the day through, to weep and rage - wanted ‘10 and, worse still, wanted ‘11. He wanted -

“Thomas!” Carson barked, knocking him cleanly from his revery. He blinked against tears, swallowing them back as he nodded tightly, hurrying into the house before being seen too closely. Back to the day-to-day where that proved the norm.


End file.
